Confessional

Decay ‘n why: The SEX issue.

I.

After thoroughly enjoying my long hiatus, I’m

raring to go and full of p and v, whatever that is, and I like to imagine you’re just teasing a guy when you look up from the task at hand—topping up the ink levels in the mimeograph machine, or barnstorming your fission statement, I think I heard that right —and say to your co-workers,

“Hey, he’s back! Could somebody shoot me in the head while I’m sleeping?”

Incidentally, those of you still stuck in the Creativity Pod with your caramel lattes long grown cold can spare yourself the effort with the mission/vision thing.  Now that The Donald has ushered in the end of days with all the finesse of a three-hundred-pound WalMart bouncer on Black Friday, we’re well aware that they both go “making a shitload of money while selling useless crap to bored consumers, polluting a lake, then going bankrupt so we don’t have to pay those pensions”, except “vision” starts “We see ourselves…” while “mission” kicks off with “Just try and stop us from…”.

And incidentally to the incidentally, allow me to prise those lattes from your hands and replace them with “partially recycled” plastic bottles made from virgin petroleum and filled with tap water labelled “mountain springs” at eight dollars per gallon—three times what you pay for gas in your car.

Gaia, that old hippie chick, withered breasts dangling at kneecap level, now slouches towards Bethlehem, not to be born but to expire with one final, raspy sigh in the Valley of The Shadow of Non-biodegradable Plastic (on the bright side, the discovery of mountains in Guelph should dramatically cut the costs of a Toronto family ski trip, come nuclear winter).

But enough about you.

I was going to call this post “The In’s ‘n Out’s of Gay Sex”, but—

1.  The In’s ‘n Out’s double-entendre is terribly overdone, at least in my mind, whose peak of ambition is to make eight-year-olds laugh;
2. I’m still searching Merriam-Webster for the correct plurals for In and Out and I don’t want anyone to think I’m one of those louche non-reader’s who believe’s that everything with “s” on the end, or even not on the end,  ha’s an apo’strophe; and,
3. I figured it would be entertaining to lure you in with just “sex” then pour cold Eau Sauvage all over you with “gay”.

judy as dorothy Google SearchAnd never worry, if you don’t get the jokes I will explain them to you, which is probably why, around 1995, everyone stopped accepting my dinner invitations and started humoring me instead.  So to all of you who responded with:

“We’d love to, but we’re so tied up getting ready for the millennium!”

may I just say, “Dudes? Like, soooo totally??!!  Random???!!!

The older you get, the more you will experience being humored. To discover if this awful fate is yours, I suggest the following experiment:

Go ahead, tell your rapt listeners for the hundredth time how Beethoven wrote his greatest music while deaf, which is why deaf people love it;

or how much better rhubarb pie was before they put the strawberries in it,

or, if a genuine coup de théâtre rather than thigh-slapping humor is the order of the day, demonstrate how to rewind an unspooled cassette tape with an HB pencil.

Next, casually look away for a second, then quickly and unexpectedly look back at them.  (You may want to remove your neck brace for this.)

Not pretty, is it?  Their eyes will be spinning in their sockets like slot-machine fruit and, if you’re fortunate enough to have ruined the afternoon of more than one millennial— which I now just assume is anyone younger than me— they may very well be exchanging knowing looks, which in my case would translate to:

“He’s doing so well today, but if he puts up his hand and calls you ‘Miss Smedley’, dial 911.”

Today’s post is about the eternal push-pull of str8 male—gay male and what these two demographics can learn from each other.

KIDDING!  Today is about the Paradox of Gay Male Desire …   (“Learn from each other”!  Man you shoulda seen the look on your face..!)

But first, a musical interlude.  You can sing it yourself, I’m out of budget.

Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!

Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!
Follow, follow, follow, follow
Follow Str8-Fellow Dick Road!

If ever and ever a dick there was
A Str-8-Fellow Dick’s the one! Because?
Because because because because because!

Because of the wonderful things it does!

There!  Wasn’t that refreshing? Now settle down.

It’s important to realize that gay men do things, sex-wise, that straight people have never, EVER, done, or even THOUGHT about.

That’s our “donnée”: Gay sex is weird and repugnant. OK? Hold that thought.

And in this era of equality and acceptance—where in Canada two guys can tie the knot, have group sex at the wedding breakfast and divorce before dinner; where in Nigeria they now cut you up into only 10 pieces with a machete instead of 12—weird and repugnant though it be, man to man ugly-bumping is now something we actually talk about.

Tabernac de bavardage!  Whatever that means! And because straight people have never EVER done anything except lights-out, close-your-eyes, missionary position sex in a state of holy wedlock with the same person for all time, or even THOUGHT about anything else, this of course, now that we’re actually talking about repugnant gay sex, makes repugnant gay sex super enticing.

Let the logic of that sink in for a moment. OK, ready?  Jeezus! We haven’t got all day, here!

Let us now add to this Kinsey smoothie some bitter, roasted nuts in the form of The Paradox of Gay Male Desire, admirably formulated on a napkin by Albert Einstein in 1972:

einstein

Paradox of Gay Male Desire, napkin formula created by Einstein while eating at “Fred’s Garage and Live Bait Also Now We Do Burgers!! Except Sundays!”.  (Private Collection, Zurich).

(Where gg= happy gay guy with possible addition of one or more fuck buddies, divided by having to wear the bra, with panties optional, and minus the angry girlfriend, multiplied by a straight guy and an exponential number of dudes who just came to watch.)

Or, as Einstein put it in layman’s terms:

“Every gay guy wants sex with a straight guy – but if the straight guy has sex with you, he’s no longer straight!  Just ask Alan Turing!  Hey, anybody wanna Fresca?”

Now, it’s obvious that your average str8 dude, once he starts thinking about all the manmeat in his life, all that dick sloshing around in those boxer shorts or old worn-out Stanfields, and available at the office, at the golf course, at the gym or during confession, and then starts thinking about all the things he can do with it—I mean, those little monsters in our pants are unruly but at their best moments undeniably impressive—well, Murgatroyd, at that point it’s just a matter of time…

(… continue to » Part II )

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Geezerdämmerung

housewarming2.png

Sitting in my newly organized, tidied,

House-and-Gardened living room (see above), listening to Beethoven, the Sonata for Violin and Piano in F, Op. 24 (“Spring”).   I have that delicious convalescent feeling, frailty borne with a light spirit; I feel as though I’m transparent.

My thorny roommate equation, which had vexed until now both muggins here and an Air Canada Centre’s worth of exasperated friends and family, has been solved—unexpectedly, uniquely, obliquely, by my being presented, last-second, with a guy who I didn’t search for, who shares my values (which I will spontaneously formulate as: keep your sense of humor, try to be intelligent, help others less fortunate, be humble, and get high every so often, but not enough to eat into your savings or your soul) and who contributes.  Energy, money, ideas, support.

You shouldn’t have to labor at keeping the minutiae of life pinned down; your conviction that life is drudgery is a warning sign that your attention is misdirected. When things work, they are so utterly simple.

My new roomie has every reason to dance, and so do I.  But for now I’m just enjoying the predictable, blissful exhaustion and unpredictable, blissful Beethoven.

Speaking of Helen Keller, have you ever

tried to explain pluralistic democracy to an American?  I mean, recently?  Or a Canadian for that matter.  The cybersphere is currently overrun with overwrought geezers—or they may be paid lackeys of the international society of David-teasers, you never know—who are enduring the terrible burden of having to share their equality toys and the limelight with their newborn little bro’s—”the gays” and “the trannies”—and for me to point out that they are not enjoying the exercise would be an understatement at a level akin to the opinion voiced by the first visitor to the Grand Canyon, who took one look and muttered, “My, my, quite a slice.”

If these Libertarian geezers had their druthers they’d toss said little bro’s down the back staircase, cot, Bunnikins cup, security blanket and all, because—well.  You know.  What’s in it for them?  

Or, as one dolt said to me last night as I defended Justin Trudeau and “his” new bill barring hate speech directed towards trans persons, “I don’t get anything extra because I’m Caucasian, so why should they?”

And that’s when I shot myself.

Before I crawl into the stagnant pond of my lukewarm bath which was newly-drawn and hot about six hours ago, I’d like to ask you a question or two.  First, why do you think Constitutions, Bills of Rights, Charters of Rights and Freedoms and other such documents exist?

And another thing:  Would you make this sort of statement to a stranger online:  “You are proselytizing the politics of Sodom and Gomorrah, and as they were destroyed, so will you be.” ? (What could be next?  “I saw Biddy Roddis with the Devil!”?)

To respond to a person who is so self-righteous that he believes “being destroyed” is a fate reserved solely for his ideological enemies, just remind him: We’re all going to be destroyed, bub.

That’s our common fate as mankind— liberal, conservative, saint and sinner—which makes it all the more crucial that we make the most of our messy, inchoate and incomprehensible lives while we can.

And surely that might involve paying attention to something—anything—besides ourselves and our small pond we insist on believing is the ocean.

~

All About the Eve of Destruction +PLUS+ Finally: The Gay Agenda so REVEALED to make your jaw!?? drop!?!???!! UNBELIEVABLE??!! (with half-hearted extra special bonus Gay Porn Titles of the Week)

phoebe

So many roommates… so little time…

Tick tock tick tock  Time goes by… so slowly…  

except when it accelerates, like the last weekend of summer scudding into the chilly shadows of responsibility and consequences. I face the dark-suited members of the Rent Tribunal on Monday at noon. For the little matter of my

being late with the rent for four months.  In a row.

Lest you think this is serious, let me bray with defiant laughter as I tell you about the 10 years previous that I was NOT late with the rent, and do they count for nothing?  Am I only as good as my last performance?

Let me tell you about every month paid up within the month, and if that doesn’t herald the advent of pull-up pants and a Beatrix Potter training spoon, what does?

Let me enlighten you about a shadowy global conspiracy: a secret underground organization dedicated to the provisioning of bad roommates, that allegorical repletion of vapid millennials who stand, like the self-styled “Phoebe” in the last shot of All About Eve, smirking the smirk of the damned as they clutch the object of their desire: my now-turned-brass-monkey balls, rendered cold and sterile as a witch’s twat.

Scene:  The final smirking Phoebe struts offstage, having effected my spiritual collapse, but I manage to lift my aging goomer* head, as always, to croak:

Next!

Oi ve voy.  Next is Mr. March, who goes mid-month to visit grandma’s house, tra-la, tra-lay, and is eaten by a wolf.

I’m just guessing about the wolf, but his cheery goodbye is the last I see of him.  He doesn’t return with the April rent, he doesn’t answer the phone,  and when I message him online the message is immediately marked “read”, which I immediately understand as meaning:  “read by his captors”.  He’s vanished. Is he abducted? Intervened? Amnesiac? Done in? Do I care anymore?  Next!

The next, current iffy choice gets arrested before moving in, which leads me to take on his iffy one-night-stand girlfriend as roomie – anyone, darling, anyone will do! – only, miracle of miracles, the current one turns up again, released on bail!   It’s rainin’ iffy roomies!

Too bad I wrote to the welfare office to cancel his funding!  Does it get any better?  You bet it does!  To wit:-

I was snarky with my friend.  I told my snark, my friend did end. Oops!

Cast your memory back, if you will, to the night before my appearance at Estreat Court, a mediaeval label for a joyless public shaming which currently does not involve entrails and a wheel, but rather a sharp slap on the wrist from Your Honor for my failure to hunt down my other friend—for I have learned to rotate them so as not to wear them out so quickly—and frog-march him to 51 Division.  I imagine holding my torch triumphantly aloft as I do so, like one of the villagers in Frankenstein.

My hapless friend, for whom I was surety, broke on a July Friday the promises he made to Her Majesty forty-eight hours before, leaving me holding the bag of hapless.  He’s just been released after serving his sentence, which tells me that four months at large plus a whole cartload of drugs in your possession yields thirteen months in captivity for lack of stick-to-it-tivity, it’s right there in the Charter!

This is my failure, what I could not imagine, try as I might:  “Halt, vile absconder! Peace Officer Roddis commands you to accompany him forthwith to the common gaol!”  Elmer Fudd, in drag, could issue this order with more red-meated authority than I.

But I digress.  That fateful night before my estreation – a word I just made up – I call out my other friend – that’s friend number 1, if you’re keeping track, and you really should – on some supremely prissy judgements he’s making about surety friend (#2).  I get, in Dorothy Parker’s words, the frankies.

I am frank with him.  High as a kite frank.  Snarky frank.

I snark at him via text, “Are you by any chance turning into one of those Tut, tut – aren’t I wonderful tut tut aren’t they a loser sanctimonious bores?  Because it sure sounds like it.” It starts there and builds to delirious, Wagnerian levels.

I’m on a roll. I tell them in no uncertain terms and I lay down the law, then for extra measure I give them a piece of my mind.  I hesitate, drawing my snark warmly about me—then press “Send”.

Immediately I regret it.   I work through the night, feeling vaguely nauseated about my toxic SMS and ponder my obnoxious sense of humor. Maybe I should have added an “LOL”? Maybe a couple?

At the proper time, I don my estreating clothes and head to court.

It is during our court break time from being estreated when I get a text from snarked friend conveying his offense at my snark and announcing, as drama queens do, be they gay or str8, his intent to block my number.

Block my number!?  Holy Facebook, it’s Mean Girls, but – with boys!  What will they think of next?  Flavor drops for water?

Turns out he’s been holding a grudge for two years about the time I snapped at him while he was stripping some paint in my dining room.  Two years!  I manage an apology, the one that sounds sincere on a good day, but snark friend telephonically storms off in a sanctimonious huff for, in the end, it’s str8 dudes who are the sensitive ones, not us tough-as-nuts gays.  Lordy, no!

So, two years ago I snapped and said something cunty. “WhatEVERRRRR!” I think, in tune with the Mean Girls vibe. Who will cut me a great big bleeding side of slack? Not he!

But how will he survive without my Sunday psychotherapy as he upgrades his fifth simultaneous house, texting me hysterically to complain: “We dropped the chandelier while installing it.  Now we’re going to have to have a crystal specially made!”

OK, fine, WhatEVERRRRR. Block my number, honorary Heather-cum-Holly-Golightly! Off you go lightly, back to your bitch mistresses, at least the ones who are female.

Here, take your pick, old pal:  Lie in the bony death-clutch of the shrieking crack-banshee from hell, or loll in the dull-as-ditchwater snuffle of your tediously faithful high-school sweetheart as you sing the Sesame Street Songbook.

For whoever the fuck it may be this week who tells you “come to Momma”, they can’t prevent me blowing, in your general direction, what may sound like a kiss.

~

My verdict from Estreat Court:  Her Majesty commands me forthwith to top up her already bulging coffers with fifty bucks, not five hundred.  No good deed goes unpunished, but Her Majesty knows a really good deed when she sees one, and punishes me just enough.

~

Apart from all that, pretty  uneventful.  Maybe I should get friend number two to move in with the guy on bail?

Yes, no?


You remember that “Gay Agenda” the right is always on about?

Well, I found this week’s update. It’s even worse than you thought…. Blessed Judy, Mother Of Liza, pray for us now and at the hour when we attempt “reverse cowgirl”.

You can see the original mind map here:  https://www.mindmeister.com/889209265#

YES, IT’S THE FIRST INSTALLMENT OF:

GAY PORN TITLES OF THE WEEK?!

  • Hot House Hot Doctor Buttfucked by Aussie
  • IconMale Jerk off session interrupted by Hunk
  • Sleazy Raw Butt-Sex Bender for Popperbators
  • Tied up Tickled and Jerked 2
  • Polar Bear Interacially Barebacked after BJ
  • Pool party turns into a hot black gay gangbang
  • Bathroom make Hard Dick
  • Jocks Fuck BB CUMPIE
  • Use him to Fuck and Blow each other

and the winner, considering its positively Grace Kelly-ish restraint, is:

Ice Skating Bitch

I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places.


* goomer:  a gay baby-boomer.  You’re welcome.

Now, and with a big, obvious sigh of relief, back to me.+PLUS+ My penis for President! +AND+ Shop slowpainfully.

Many of you have been clamoring for more information about me

16298677_794953593988054_6886214414725926991_n

I mean it. LITTLE SMOOCHING NOISES. Read the EULA, bitch!

as well as a semi-nude, duo-toned selfie that shows off my dreamy eyes, but that you still wouldn’t be afraid to show your Great Aunt Lorna who used to do the trick with the ping-pong ball, professionally.

Well, no, actually that’s a blatant lie, no one has even remotely asked for anything like that. Or anything, to be honest.

Thanks for the “target audience”, Adwords! Like, way to steal my two bucks!

Anyhoo, here’s the dreamy-eyes pic – and please remember to make little smooching noises when you kiss the screen, per the End User Licensing Agreement – and the requisite “fun” facts about me so you can ignore the whole shebang at once.

I figure I can at least save you some time.  You’re welcome!

“FUN” FACTS, SORT OF ABOUT ME :

From the many options currently available, I identify as “probably male but we’d have to check”.  As we’re in saving-precious-time mode, I’ll assume.

Assuming “male” has at least the same, probably better, prediction value than, say:

  • knowing someone’s astrological sign;
  • a Facebook poll targeting only your fellow white supremacists, IF you remember to ask them; or
  • your empirical knowledge, built upon centuries of previous observations and confirmed by you over an entire lifetime, that the sun will unfailingly rise tomorrow—always assuming it’s not the evening before the Jupiter-sized asteroid.

Come to think of it, “male” tells you a heckuva lot, even when extrapolated to I, who never leave the house;  even when considered agnostically as to gay or str8.  So this way, I can do my confessional bit on the generalities, without actually revealing anything about ME that’s differentiating in the specifics.

Which is a whole lotta conniving and sweat of the brow for something that no one’s asked for. Seriously.

But hey. I’m a lapsed Buddhist, which means I take the same zen-like care with everything, lest I show attachment to one thing, which is apparently a bad thing.

For example, I labour day and night over this blog like five Prousts booty-bumping crystal and with the same zen-like care I would give an actual job that supported me well enough – OK, supported me at all – that I could resume opening my bank statements, Canada Revenue demands and those mysterious letters post-marked Manitoba without hiring someone from Craigslist Adult Entertainment to open them for me, sum up the content, then tie me up and verbally abuse me so I’m too distracted to continue crying.

It’s not exactly breathlessly original. I’m sure you’ve all done the same at some point!

So, assuming “male” and moving right along, here’s what you already know about me:

I’m Male, therefore:

I buy expensive electronics and fiddle with them until they break because I’m too retarded to read the manual.
~

I call women “bitch” if they try to do anything that doesn’t involve
1. being emotionally available and nurturing to me 24/7, or
2. a blender.
~

Although I’m too retarded to read the manual, I’m still an expert in whatever it was before I broke it. Be sure to pay me total attention while I pontificate, or I’ll become angry, then sulk.
~

This:

2017-05-07 11.56.31

~

Moving right along:

I’m impressed by anything as long as it’s excessive and gross—
if I’m straight she uses basketball hoops for a bra,
if I’m gay, he transports it in a wheelbarrow.
Either way, I’ll take a selfie with my bowel movement because it formed a question mark, and will probably not wait until after the main course to show you.
I also really like Mahler.
~

I fall asleep right after you bang me, especially if I know we both faked it.
~

Show emotion and I’ll use logic to explain why you can’t actually be feeling that. Don’t show emotion and I’ll fake-diagnose you as Asperger’s (male) or “cold bitch” (see above).
~

I apologize for telling you to “fuck off and die loser!!!” by waiting a week, then texting you “sup dude” at three A.M.
~

It’s only OK for me to cheat, not you, because “I’m faithful in my heart”. You, on the other hand, are just an evil tramp.
~

I can, and do, write my name in the snow. But not in cursive, which would be “faggy”.
~

By the way, as a male, my penis is more important than Pope Francis and Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II combined then promoted to Customer Care Supervisor at Bell Canada. If I’m too long in the bathroom one morning, it’s just possible I’ve dressed it up in little coronation robes and a mitre and am halfway through the service for “Eucharist”.

In fact, come to think of it, I think my penis should be elected, by a clear, unequivocal vote of a minority of the eligible population, President of the United States.

You could do a lot worse.  Ya know??!!

~

Come buy my wares!

Yes, I’ve opened a shop on Facebook.  There’s only three products there as of today, but oh I think you might just like ’em.

This launches my brand AuntieMeme™.  This is a clever portmanteau of “opposite of a meme” and “Auntie Mame”, which is both pretty fuckin’ gay and a fair bit of joke explaining, but I desperately want you to “get it”.

CONTEST UPDATE:  Enter my contest, with still a week before closing, and, should you win, with all the attendant brouhaha, you’ll ADDITIONALLY receive one of the posters signed by yours truly.  Now I ask you.  Could there be a greater incentive.  This is what former marketers such as myself call a “value add”.  But you can’t enjoy a “value add”  without a “contest enter.”  OK?

Have a look by following this link, and please support my vast and far-reaching efforts to Give The Gift of Polite, Strained Laughter™.

Shop SlowPainful.com on Facebook.

 

Just getting up from the Ditch of Despond and climbing back onto the Carousel of Crazy: An overview

Hello, many of you have written to ask if I’m OK.

Actually, that’s a blatant lie, not a single one of you has written, sent a message in an old Shiraz bottle, hired a bird from “Carrier Pigeons Plus” or done any of those “too busy to express how little I care but spending a portion of my vast disposable income on something that gives ME a laugh will substitute, sort of, and anyway, like it or lump it” things that would lead me to believe that my followers are actually, you know.

Following me.horror

You may be wondering: I’m living solo at home again.  Yeah, you can hold off sending in an application.  For my bedroom, during the past three and a half years, eight months, two weeks and five days, has served much the same function as John Hurt’s belly in Alien, or, should you insist on CanCon, one of Genevieve Bujold’s uteri in Dead Ringers:-

A safe haven for those who, having mastered the appearance of what currently passes for normal until the agreement is signed, are looking for a space in which to achieve their true form, then, having gorged to repletion on whatever leathery tubes and lobes are to hand, explode into existence as yet another iteration of bucking, wiggling nameless horror.

And have YOU cleaned exploded abdomen off your bedroom walls lately?  Five cans of Comet later my hands are like two red udders, and just TRY telling your building management that it’s from spending too much time skiing in Gstaad.   Like, seriously??!!

So, in the interests of keeping my blog alive, I hereby demonstrate my well-honed off-fobbing skills with an animated GIF, those Lascaux cave paintings of the early Web which have now resurfaced as the crack cocaine of social media—and animated GIFs of cats are the true, pure Colombian shit.

Just don’t cut yourself on the nasty, sharp, broken edges of your monitor in your haste to sample the goods.  There’s a petal.  Cause open sores on the lips don’t jibe with that Craigslist ad of yours that goes

“Chew!  My!  Nipples!!?? Barely legal teen, up to two fingers, wants horizons expanded!! Orange toupées, billionaires and sponge-y, fleeting hard-ons front of line!!  OMFG??!! Looking??!! for NOW???!!! PayPal???!!!”

Cats, in case you hadn’t noticed, are the second-most pathetically laughable beings on the planet, combining as they do unshakeable belief in their entitlement to your slavery, a chilly dignity that is 99% condescension, and an unbridled, nobody’s-watching, let-your-fur-down, meaningless and self-serving acrobatic idiocy.

Second-most.

So, then.  Wanna know how I’m doing, solo once more?  Since you asked?

cat-somersault

« À bientôt, ma Virginia collective, à bientôt … »